The Beginning After the End

how miserable humans are.

He laughed as he died, soft and low,
as if he had nowhere else to go.

Because, as some people say,
to die means you once found your way.

But he never lived, not truly, not deep,
just wandered through days he could never keep.

A body that moved, a soul out of place,
a ghost in time, a fading trace.

He walked through hell, then deeper still,
not out of strength — but chasing a will.

To feel a spark, a burning light,
to give his endless dark a fight.

But life means nothing to empty hands,
no path remains where no one stands.

No purpose lives in shattered things,
in broken hopes with silent wings.

And everything he chased was small —
a laugh, a rise, then just a fall.

To be the best, or seem that way,
just not to lose himself each day.

But even that had slipped away,
like fragile light that couldn’t stay.

So when he died, he felt no pain,
just quiet loss, a hollow rain.

And all he saw was endless fire,
a silent, cold, and darkened pyre.

He knew that place, he’d been before,
behind that unseen, burning door.

But this time, it was his own choice,
a final act, a silent voice.

For once in life, he chose his end,
no need to break, no need to bend.

And in that choice, so sharp, so true,
he found a peace he never knew.

The flames around him didn’t scream,
they flickered soft, just like a dream.

For deeper still, beneath the fire,
burned something worse — a dead desire.

A silent ache, a frozen heart,
that tore his soul and ripped apart.

And then he knew, without a fear,
no pain, no voice could reach him here.

No hand to strike, no words to tear,
no one left who even cared.